Steele Admired
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Series) A secret admirer who leads them each to believe it is the other bestowing Laura with gifts. A dangerous villain from the past, and a perhaps even more dangerous newcomer. How will Remington and Laura reconcile the events of Santa Claus is Coming?
1. Chapter 1

_**The Alternative Universe Series**_

 _ **Toss the Twilight Zone experience of Season 5 into the proverbial trash can. These stories pick up after Steele of Approval. While Approval still exists, more importantly these stories look at season 4 as most of the viewers saw it - Laura and Remington had crossed that line, imbuing that Season with the "Mr & Mrs Steele" feeling that most experienced. **_

_**To get the most out of my stories, I recommend reading them in the following order:**_

 **Steele Forsaken (Part 1 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
Steele Mending (Part 2 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series)  
A Holt New Beginning (Part 3 of 3 in the A Holt New Beginning Series; Takes place during and after Steele Searching)  
Holt the Presses (Takes place during and after Steele Blushing)  
The Holt Truth (Takes place during and after Forged Steele)  
You've Gotta Know When to Holt 'Em (Takes place during Premium Steele)  
Holt the Sugar (Takes place during and after Coffee, Tea or Steele)  
Not So Merry Steele (After Dancer, Prancer, Donner and Steele)  
Snippets of Steele (Missing scenes from Steele on the Air, Steele Inc, and Steele Spawning)  
Holting Down the Fort (During Suburban Steele)  
Steele Admired (During and After Santa Claus is Coming to Steele)  
Steele Moving Forward (Sensitive Steele) - Coming Soon  
Her Holt Heart (Pre Beg, Borrow through the end of Season 4 [No Bonds]) - Coming Soon**

 _ **As usual, I do not own the characters. I simply borrow them.**_

* * *

Chapter 1

Laura walked into Remington's office, and closed the door soundly behind her. A smile dancing on her lips, she crossed the floor to where Remington sat with his feet propped up on the corner of his desk, newspaper in hand. Lowering it as she approached, a matching smile lifted his lips but before he could greet her a good morning, she dropped her purse on his desk then bent down and brushed her lips against his. His smile widened. Despite the intimate relationship they'd shared for months, not to mention the years of them dancing close then away from one another, it was still a rare treat for her, indeed, to instigate a kiss in the office. In fact, he could count on one hand, after three and a half years, the number of times she had. He smacked his lips together, when her lips left his, his blue eyes twinkling at her.

"Thank you," she told him softly.

"Mmmm. What is it I've done?" He wondered, dropping his feet from the corner of the desk, then tossing the newspaper onto it. "I'll have to be certain to do it more often if this is how you show your appreciation."

"The flowers are lovely," she praised. "They started off the day on the perfect note." He sat up a little straighter in his chair, his smile fading.

" _What_ flowers?" he clipped out the question. She laughed quietly.

"The ones you sent." He only stared at her, saying nothing. "To the loft." She held out both hands, palms up. "This morning." When he continued to silently regard her, she picked up her purse, opened the flap and retrieved the card which had accompanied the flowers. "'Just as the sunshine brightens the day, your smile brightens mine,'" she read aloud.

"Laura, I didn't send you flowers," he denied, "To the loft or anywhere else." She fought for patience.

"It's signed, ' _Your secret admirer_.' Sound familiar?" He plucked the card from her hand and studied it.

"Should it?" She began to lose patience with him.

"We've been down this road before, Mr. Steele," she reminded him. "Two years ago? You emptied out every florist in town, trying to impress me?"

"Yes, yes," he answered, impatiently. "But, regardless, I have nothing to do with this." He flipped the card upwards between two fingers for emphasis. She regarded him at length, then standing fully, a radiant smile on her face, took the card back from him and returned it to her purse.

Without so much as a farewell, she floated from the room mumbling, "I wonder who it is."

* * *

Friday had, at last, arrived. Remington and Laura would be spending this weekend at the loft, which meant a stop by the grocery would be demanded. Not only was her refrigerator perpetually empty, lest he stocked it, but it had become habit for him to whip up several dishes across the weekend which were both freezer friendly and easily warmed. While some might consider it a chore, frankly, he enjoyed it, given it was one of the few things she allowed him to do for her.

When he arrived at the loft, Laura hadn't yet made it home. She'd had a couple more case files to close out and planned to stop at the dry cleaners on the way home. Setting the bags of groceries on the floor, he fished in his pocket for his keys. After unlocking the padlock, he pulled back the door, then gathered up the groceries and stepped inside… and found himself instantly irritated.

Flowers decorated several surfaces throughout the loft: Red roses on top of the piano; purple roses on her small desk that sat tucked next to the kitchen; pink roses on the end table by the couch; and arrangements of lilies, red roses and daisies on the kitchen bar. She'd made no mention of more arrangements being delivered, but it could only be assumed that there had been as this wouldn't have been her doing. She was drawn towards simple greenery to decorate the apartment, making the home she'd created for herself warm and inviting, as opposed to the flowery, feminine puffery taking up space everywhere. With a puff of annoyance, he dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and began putting away his purchases. Midway through the unpacking process, a knock sounded at the still open door.

"Delivery," the man in his early twenties called out. _Of course it is,_ Remington noted silently, and sourly, to himself. Crossing the room, he signed then accepted the latest delivery, tipping the man for his troubles. Setting the vase of lilacs on her coffee table, he removed the card from its holder, even as his conscience niggled at him. Still, he justified, a man had a right to know where he stood, what he was up against.

 _Your beauty is a feast for the eyes of a starving man. ~ Your Secret Admirer_

He snorted his derision while returning card to envelope. It was a hell of a thing to have another man courting the woman you loved, shared a bed with. More so, it was worrisome, for he remembered all too well how besotted she'd been when it was he pretending to be her secret admirer. _Bloody well obsessed with discovering who was behind it and, worse, seemed interested in testing those waters should the man's identity be revealed._

Could, whoever this was, be competition? He'd like to say, emphatically, no, but he couldn't. Not with complete confidence, at least. He'd seen the uncertainty, the questions, lingering in her eyes time and again in these last weeks. Yet, he was no less… trapped, tongue-tied… than he'd been straight along. She wasn't the only one who needed assurances and until he knew she wouldn't run or send him on the way again, he was shackled by his own fears.

But, should this bugger decide to reveal himself, he, Remington Steele, certainly wasn't going to stand idly by. He'd claimed Laura for himself long, long ago and by virtue of their commitment to one another last fall, it was now official. He'd neither let her go, nor walk away. Never mind, all the uncertainties between them at present. Laura Holt was his past, present _and_ _future_. They simply had to figure out, together, what that future was to be… and how to get there.

Thus, arrived the woman currently occupying his thoughts: still dressed in her prim little suit, briefcase and purse slung over one arm, carrying their dry cleaning in the other. Dropping her load on a chair in the living room, she walked into the kitchen and pressed up on her toes to kiss him in greeting.

"The dry cleaner was a madhouse," she offered as an explanation for why she was running behind. "Mind if I take a run before dinner?" Embracing her waist, he pulled her to him for another taste of her sweet lips.

"Not at all. It is what we do on the weekends, after all, isn't it?" he pointed out when he released her. "You run while I cook?"

"It is," she agreed. "I just wanted to be sure I wouldn't delay whatever you have planned."

"I just got here myself." He gave a nod towards the potless stove. "I was thinking we'd keep it simple this evening. Salad, chicken alfredo, garlic knots and a crisp white wine."

"Sounds wonderful." She kissed him again, her lips lingering for a split second longer than normal before slipping out of his embrace, conveying her thanks for both his meal plans and patience. "I shouldn't be gone more than an—" Her words, and feet, came to a halt as she spied the newest arrangement on the coffee table. "When did these arrive?"

"Five, ten minutes ago, perhaps," he provided, then couldn't help adding, "As though the loft isn't already coming to resemble a hothouse." Without turning to look at him, she laughed a single, silent laugh, while retrieving the card from the pick. "Oh, my," she murmured aloud, not missed by his keen ears, then with card still in hand went upstairs to change into her running clothes, with a bit more pep in her step than when she'd arrived.

 _Whoever this sodding secret admirer is_ , Remington thought to himself, _he's beginning to annoy me._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Laura wasn't quite sure what had gotten into her, although she suspected it was the combination Dancer showing up on her doorstep and threatening her, along with the arrival of her 'secret admirer's' latest gift not an hour before that.

A week ago, she'd solved the mystery of her secret admirer. It had turned out her first instinct had been correct: It was none other than Remington himself. One would think, after the fallout the last time he'd tried this particular ploy, he'd reconsider the intelligence of reviving it. And, frankly, she'd hovered between being irritated and amused, insulted and flattered, since the chocolate had begun arriving, putting a nail into her Mr. Steele's coffin.

 _Belgian_ chocolate. The kind that costs twenty-five dollars a pound. The kind that would remind her of an afternoon spent in a Brussel's park, where they'd picnicked and he'd fed her bites of the rich confection, sampling its taste on her lips, in her mouth, over and over again. It had been one of the single most romantic encounters of her lifetime… and he hadn't been left unaffected by it either. So much so, that the day after Christmas, _not even two months ago_ , as they'd lain next to the Christmas tree in her loft, and he'd sampled the flavor of Parlays from her lips and mouth, he'd made mention of that very occasion!

She had no idea what the end goal of this gambit was or what it was he might be trying to convey, so she'd decided to let it play out for a bit. Then, this morning the watch had arrived. The very one he'd told her at Christmas he'd meant to buy her. Which begged the question…

How long was he going to keep this ruse up?!

She hadn't _intended_ to put a full court press on him when she'd walked to the office, had merely intended to make him squirm. But then, as he'd continued to play coy, she'd become increasingly irritated….

* * *

 _ **"Any idea who it might be, Mr. Steele?"**_

 _ **"Someone who cares very deeply for you, perhaps even loves you… but can't bring himself to express those feelings… directly."**_

 _ **"I wish he'd stop beating around the bush."**_

 _ **"He might."**_

* * *

And where had it gotten her? Nowhere! For one brief, heart racing moment, she thought he was finally going to say those words, and what did she get?

'He might.' _**He might!?**_

She'd left his office furious, and absolutely convinced the man was trying to drive her stark, raving mad.

* * *

Remington stared at the door to his office, gnawing on a thumbnail, a worried frown contorting his brow. He'd been expecting it, although not in quite this fashion: Laura nailing him to the wall, demanding to know what, exactly, his feelings were for her, what he saw on the horizon for them.

Yet, for a woman who claimed _his_ ruses undermined her trust in him, what of her own? He'd known the instant the chocolates had begun arriving that she was, in fact, her own secret admirer. It had been so obvious! _Belgian_ chocolates, reminiscent of a certain day they'd spent in a Brussels' park, he feeding her morsels of the treat, then tasting the sweet confection on her lips, in her mouth, at his leisure. That trip – at least those days before infernal Cannes – had been some of the most meaningful days of his life. Surely, she hadn't believed he'd forgotten? For God's sake, he'd spoken of the memory not two months before, as they'd reenacted that day while lying stretched out on the floor next to her Christmas tree.

He'd thought to call her on her game when the first of the chocolates had arrived, but had wanted to let it play out until she'd confessed. Oh, he'd 'forgive' her eventually, but not until he made certain she flushed at least a half dozen times and squirmed for a good while. After all, _she'd_ made _him_ believe another man had his sites upon her, driving him half out of his mind with jealousy before he'd put it all together.

And when he had? He'd been a bit… vexed… at first, to be honest. What reason would she have for doing this, other than to wrench from him the words she wanted… a promise of forever… at no cost to herself?

But the fact of the matter was simple: Laura was normally as honest as the day was long. That she'd rely on a falsehood to try to pry his feelings, his intentions, out of him spoke volumes, fairly screaming: It's time we move ahead or…

And it was that 'or' that he feared most. That he could lose what they now had together, that he could lose _her_? Unfathomable.

But, he wouldn't… couldn't… not like this. There needed to be some equanimity involved. He needed to know if he placed his heart in the palm of her hands, she wouldn't toss it away.

It was time to put an end to this game of hers. Then they'd figure out how to get where he hoped both they wanted to end up…. Somehow.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Remington had just grabbed Lieutenant Benjamin by the shirt and yanked him forward, fully prepared to resort to blows if that's what it took to get to Laura, be damned the consequences, when Laura walked through the door of his apartment, seemingly whole and well. Releasing the man, he resisted the impulse pull her into his arms, knowing how she'd feel about what would amount to an announcement of what they were to one another to the boys in the blue.

" _What happened here_?" she asked, shocked by the half-dozen uniformed officers plus Benjamin milling about his apartment.

"That's what I'm trying to find out, if your Boss here would get his mind off what happened over at your place, and get it on what happened here!" Benjamin answered, his voice rising until he was yelling as he said the last half dozen words.

"Miss Holt, a moment to caucus, if you don't mind?" Remington suggested, patently ignoring Benjamin's complaints.

"Steele, I'm about to place you under arrest for failure to cooperate in an investiga—"

"Start with Mildred. I'm sure you'll find her more cooperative now that we know Miss Holt is safe," he brushed off the man, steering Laura towards his bedroom with a hand on the small of her back, balancing himself on a single crutch underneath the other arm.

"Steele!" Benjamin barked.

"In a minute!" Remington roared back, ushering Laura into his room then closing the door and locking it behind them. He cupped her face in his free hand, studying it at length. "Are you alright?" he inquired, his hand leaving her face to soothe down her arm.

"I'm fine," she assured, drawing out both words. "What happened here?" He shook his head, trying to concentrate on her question.

"Delgetti. Killed the officer guarding us, held Mildred and I hostage for a spell." He pulled her into his embrace, pressing his lips against the top of her head and holding them there at length. "When we realized it wasn't Dancer who'd rigged the elevator," he finally spoke, "But your secret admirer, and you wouldn't answer your phone…"

"I'm fine," she assured him again. "Remington…" The use of his name had its intended effect, and he nodded his head rapidly, then bussing her on the top of her head a final time, he released her. "Go, give your statement to Benjamin. The sooner you do, the sooner we can get to bed. It's been a long day." With a long indrawn breath, slowly released and a swipe at his face with his hand, he followed her from the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

After Benjamin's departure, Laura spent the night at Remington's, neither particularly interested in being apart after the strains of the day and a couple of close calls that could have cost either of them their lives. In fact, they'd been in bed for only a few short minutes before she'd propped herself up on an elbow and had leaned down and kissed him, thoroughly, making what she needed patently clear. He wasn't inclined to argue, needing the affirmation that she was here, safe, as much as she, but he'd looked dully at the cast on his leg then back at her as if to say he was hampered at the moment and would be unable to make love to as he'd like and she was accustomed to. She'd merely smiled, then had made love to _him_ in a manner that had left them both quaking and clutching at one another in the aftermath. After a bit of housekeeping by her for them both, she'd slipped into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and had laid down, head on his shoulder, nuzzled against his side, an arm holding him securely, and, with a soft sigh, had allowed oblivion to steal her away.

On the surface, it appeared they'd both come through the events with nary so much as a hangnail. In reality, however, Remington had been left introspective, and on more than one occasion had left Laura flummoxed and more than a little off balance. Such as the morning after Delgetti and Wally had been dispatched.

* * *

 _ **"You know, Laura, we've been so busy lately, exploring and defining our personal relationship that we've taken the professional side for granted. It's not until something like this comes along to force one to reevaluate."**_

 _ **"What exactly are we reevaluating?"**_

 _ **"Like, do you intend to pursue this line of work for the rest of your life?"**_

 _ **"I haven't really given it much thought."**_

 _ **"Supposing you had children? Just supposing. Would you intend to continue working? Or would you feed the little tykes breakfast in the morning and then rush off to a nice, juicy murder? I mean, would you call them up at school and apologize because you couldn't pick them up because you were being held hostage?"**_

* * *

Oh, she'd managed to play it off, feigning offense when she'd asked if he was trying to tell her he believed women were meant to stay at home, but in truth, the questions and their possible implications had left her reeling. Just whose children was she having? _His?_ Why else would he be concerned what her future plans for her children might be? And if that were the case, wasn't he putting the cart a quarter mile or so before the horse? After all, he'd still not spoken a word about how he felt or where he believed they might be going.

Instead of taking comfort in the possibility he was looking that far into the future and seeing her at his side, it simultaneously frightened her and left her more confused than ever.

It would take two weeks, but Remington came to the realization that Laura was an accomplished actress, so much so that she would have fared very well in his previous chameleon-like existence. Two weeks. By the time he'd realized she'd not walked away unscathed but had been left with a gaping wound delivered by the hand of her secret admirer, he'd replayed the weeks in his mind and recognized the signs she was struggling had been there all along.

After Delgetti and Wally had been hauled off, Laura had spent the next three nights with him, and by the time those had elapsed? The weekend had arrived… the weekend that should have, by all rights, taken place at the loft, but she'd begged off, pointing out it would be far easier on him to be at his flat where there was an elevator at his disposal. She'd gone home on Sunday evening, as she normally would, but had prolonged her goodbyes until nearly midnight. Throughout the work week that followed, she'd been temperamental, had sniped often, but this was not tremendously out of the ordinary, and he'd written it off to having to take on most of his work as well, given his physical limitations. Likewise, he'd written off the several times she'd dozed off at his place in the evenings, as this, too, was fairly normal and, again, she'd been carrying a tremendous workload on her slim shoulders.

It wasn't until their next weekend approached, that those little hairs on the back of his neck had stood at attention, notifying him something was amiss with his Miss Holt. Once again, she'd insisted they stay at his flat, her reasoning unchanged from the week prior, but this time he'd argued he was perfectly capable of navigating the three flights of stairs. It had been nearly three weeks since they'd spent time at her loft, and he was convinced the stock of food he'd last left with her would be long gone… not that he'd admit this concern to her, lest he wished to have his ears verbally boxed as she replayed yet another rendition of 'I can take care of myself.' Finally, thoroughly aggravated, she plopped her hands on those slender hips and narrowed her eyes on him.

"Why does it matter so much to you that we stay at the loft?" she demanded to know, crossly. He'd given her a lopsided grin and a waggle of his brows.

"Because I happen to enjoy befouling those otherwise pristine sheets of yours." She'd not found that at all amusing and he'd turned serious. "There was a time when I didn't believe you'd ever share that much of your life with me, Laura and it means a great deal to me that you do."

Well, how could she possibly wage a successful argument against that? And she hadn't. So with Fred's assistance, Remington had completed his traditional trip to the market, then once all the food was put away began cooking that night's meal.

Laura had been tense, jumpy and withdrawn all evening, enough so that he'd begun to question if she was put out with him for something, although for the life of him, he couldn't come up with a single thing he'd done in recent days to make her so. Normally when she was out of sorts, he'd suggest an evening stroll along the beach, or he'd entice her into a dance with an offered hand, to ease her out of her mood. Neither, however, was an option this evening given the limitations imposed upon him by his cast, and unlike his flat, there wasn't a jacuzzi tub where a hot, soothing soak could be had. A couple of glasses of a fruity Merlot, viewings of _Pillow Talk_ (Tony Randall, Thelma Ritter, Doris Day, Universal, 1959) and _Houseboat_ (Cary Grant, Sophia Loren, Martha Hyer, Paramount, 1958), and a long, long massage of her neck and back, finally left her dozing. Not what one might call a rollicking Friday night, but if he'd helped soothe whatever it was that had gotten under her skin, he was more than satisfied with the results.

To say she slept restlessly that evening would be an understatement. Twice he'd been awakened when her hand had clenched his chest tightly enough to be painful and another time he'd been roused when she'd sat up in bed, panting, staring blindly about the room. But what had really grabbed his attention was when she'd woken up and gone from window-to-window in the loft, pulling down and then shuttering close the blinds that had never been there before, only so an hour and a half later, clearly believing she'd left him undisturbed, she'd checked the latch on the front door, then tested each of the windows in the kitchen and dining room before returning to bed.

The following day, it was as if nothing had happened at all. She'd awakened with a smile and, soon thereafter, had quite thoroughly seduced him, leaving him to get a few more winks when she'd departed for a morning run. After her return, she'd showered, changed and shared an enjoyable breakfast. The remainder of the morning saw him prepping meals to freeze for the week ahead while she worked out at her barre then went over case files. Throughout it all, they'd spoken quietly, teased frequently, and laughed often. That evening, dinner at L'Ornate – where Pierre had fawned all over his favored customers who'd once again made the headlines – was followed by an evening at the theater where they'd attended a production of _Les Miserables_. It had, all-in-all, been the perfect day in his estimation, and based on how Laura had taken his hand in the limo, tangled their fingers together then rested her head against his shoulder with a quiet sigh, she appeared to feel the same.

Thus, it was completely unexpected when she'd grown increasingly more tense and jittery after they'd returned to the loft. Once more, they indulged themselves, this time with a simple Pinot Grigio, and he'd massaged her tension away. But, that night, much like the night before, she slept fitfully. When she'd left the bed for the second time to check doors and windows, he'd, quite frankly, had enough. Turning on the lamp next to the bed, he slung on his robe, and made his way downstairs.

"Laura, don't you think it's time you shared whatever it is that's going on?" he asked, leaning his backside against the arm of a chair and crossing his arms. She forced a reassuring smile onto her face.

"I'm just a bit restless, that's all," she prevaricated. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I believe we both know it's more than that," he told her, challenging the falsehood. "Both last night and tonight, you've been living on the edge of your nerves, jumping at the slightest sound, more tense than I may have ever seen you. You're waking up in the middle of the night to close shades, lock doors, and even in your sleep you're battling something." She averted her faced and wrapping her arms around herself, rubbed at them with her hands.

"It's nothing," she dismissed while giving her head a slow shake. The second denial pricked his temper.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name, his patience wearing thin. "How often have you rasped in my ear about coming to you when I'm in trouble? That whatever it is, we'll work through it together?" Her chin lifted an inch, but she held her silence. He searched his memory for anything at all that might give him a clue as to what was going on with her, straightening slightly when he found it. "What happened here that night with that… that… deranged bugger?"

"Nothing happened here," she bit out, her chin going upwards another notch. He gave his head a sharp nod.

"Not here," he jumped on that bit of information. "But something did happen," he pressed. Once again, she remained resolutely silent. "Damn it, Laura!" he shouted at her, while dragging a harsh hand through his hair. "Have you any idea what's going through my mind right now? What it is you haven't told –"

"He had pictures, alright!?" she yelled back, throwing her arms out in her frustration.

"Pictures," he repeated. "Pictures of what?" He watched as she sucked in her lower lip and blinked her eyes rapidly. "Pictures of you?" She flinched at the words. "What kind of pictures of you?" She retained her stubborn silence until he rasped out, almost painfully, "Laura…" She crossed her arms around herself protectively again.

"Some were nothing more than pictures printed in the newspaper at one time or another." She took a deep, stuttering breath. "Others were of me, here, when I believed I was alone, in the privacy of my own home." He rubbed at his mouth with a hand.

"He's not coming back, Laura." It was all he had to offer, and he hated it.

"I know that," she acknowledged, then dropping her arms reached for a brow, "At least in my head."

"But in your heart?" She looked up at the ceiling, blinking her eyes again.

"I feel… violated," she whispered. "He was watching me. When I worked out at my barre, made a cup of tea, when I was in bed… showered." She dropped her head down to look at him. "I used to believe there was nothing that could make me feel worse than being reduced to 'just flesh' by someone. I was wrong. It's knowing someone's watched me in my most private moments, that he's _seen_ things, _knows_ things about me, that I've chosen not to share with anyone but you in—" Her face crumpled, and it took every bit of the strength she possessed not to break. Drawing in a staggered breath, she gave him a pained look. "This was _my home_." With the aid of his crutch he made it across the room to her, and wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close.

"It still is, Laura." He pressed his cheek against the side of her head, and tugged her a little more tightly against him. "Did he violate it? You? Yes, he did. But don't give him more than he's already taken."

"I'm trying," she whispered.

"You're not in this alone. I'm right here with you, all the way," he promised. She nodded her head rapidly against his shoulder. "Come back to bed with me, hmmm?" Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head back and smiled at him.

"Is that a proposition, _Mr. Steele_?"

"It's whatever you wish it to be, Miss Holt," he told her quietly, then leaned down and pressed his lips against her forehead, letting them linger, then repeated, "Whatever you wish it to be." Stepping out of his embrace, she took his hand in hers and weaved their fingers together.

"Then, let's go bed," she agreed, giving his hand a tug.

He gladly followed along.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Two nights later, after dinner in Remington's flat, he emerged from the bedroom with a large, ribboned box in his hands. Taking his seat next to her, he placed the box on her lap. Nervously, he cleared his throat.

"I, uh, had thought to have courier bring this round to the loft, but then thought better of it, as I didn't want to stir up bad memories," he began, then cleared his throat again. "I, uh, thought… to prevent any misunderstandings down the line… that it might be… uh… wise, to provide you with a vivid reminder of the type of gifts I give women…" He gave her a chagrined look at his poor choice of words, then corrected, "More to the point, the, uh, type of gift I'm inclined to give _one woman_ in particular." She eyed the box, then lifted a pair of curious brown eyes to his face.

"What is it?" He smiled nervously.

"I saw it whilst doing a bit shopping when you were in Connecticut, and…" he tugged at his ear "…and knew it was meant to be yours. I'd, uh, intended to give it to you for your birthday, but then Perrett came along and…"

"My lamp," she filled in with a smile. He nodded.

"Yes. So, I thought to wait until the right occasion came along…"

"And this is it?" she pondered, to which she received another nod.

She fingered the bow, then looked at him in question. At his nod, she pulled it free, then carefully lifted the lid and set it aside. Atop the tissue paper, which effectively concealed the box's contents, lay a small envelope, such as might enclose a card from a florist. Growing nervous herself, she eyed him, and noted he'd begun worrying a thumbnail with his teeth. Removing the card from within, she read it, silently.

 _Every woman should have at least one, and no one is more deserving than you. ~ Your_ _not so Secret_ _Admirer._

The words written there were enough to move her heart into double time, as she set aside the card then carefully peeled back the tissue paper. Her gasp made him shift noticeably in the seat next to her.

"It's too much," she murmured, fingering the coat beneath her hand.

"To the contrary, I'd say it's not nearly enough," he countered. A crooked grin lit his face at her obvious pleasure. Standing, he picked up the coat and moved the box to the couch next to her. "Shall we give it a try? Hmmmmm?" he suggested, offering her a hand up.

He held up the coat as she eased one arm, then the next into it, running her hands down the front of it once he'd adjusted it over her shoulders. Gentle hands turned her around so he might admire her form.

"It's beautiful," she complimented, by way of a thank you.

"Not nearly so much as the woman wearing it," he countered, the sincerity blazing in his eyes making her blink, bringing with it a rise to all the confusion and uncertainty that seemed to follow her these days.

"Can I…?" she indicated his bedroom with a bend of her head.

"Of course," he agreed, taking a step back, then following behind. She stopped in front of his closet doors, where she could appreciate her reflection. The full length white fox coat, was thick… chic… and everything she'd never think to do for herself.

"I don't know what to say…" she murmured, then lifted her eyes to meet his in the mirror. "Thank you." He eased an arm around her waist, and turned her to face him, then lay two fingers under her chin and lifted it until their eyes met.

" _This_ is the only type of fur I would see as befitting a woman such as yourself," he told her, leaning his head slightly closer to her to emphasize the point. A dimple flashed when she immediately understood his reference.

"As opposed to the fur on…," she lifted her brows at him, "…a teddy bear?"

"Most especially on a _teddy bear_ ," he confirmed, saying the last two words with the derision he felt such a ludicrous gift for a woman like her deserved. He held his eyes on her long enough to make her squirm.

"It's hot in here," she commented, preparing to take a step away. The arm on her waist held her fast, and his other hand lifted a heavy fall of her hair over her shoulder.

"Perhaps we should relieve you of a layer… or three… of clothing, then, hmmmm?" Those dimples appeared again.

"I don't know that will aid in cooling me off, Mr. Steele," she crooned, lifting her brows at him and smiling.

"I certainly hope not, Miss Holt," he answered gruffly and his lips descended to meet hers. "I certainly hope not," he breathed one last time before his lips claimed hers, smothering her quiet laughter, and sending her temperature rising.


End file.
